“Does your father know about this?”
“Henry, this grieves me, but Mr. Bernard ain’t what he used to be.
He drools. He falls asleep at board meetings. Or he sits there, sucking on one of those damn Popsicles, farting away, while decisions involving millions are being made. You think the word isn’t out on the street? The word is out. He also gives in more frequently to that notorious temper of his. Important executives I took considerable pains to recruit are fired, lost to our competitors. Why? Because they’re too tall. Appointments with merchant bankers aren’t kept. It’s the old Henry Ford syndrome all over again. He’s stuck with his first hard-on. He’ll make you a Model-T in any colour you want so long as it’s black. Ms. Bernard won’t allow us to drop old dark heavy Scotches, no longer popular, because he once had a hand in the blending. He knocks down any new light blend if it comes from what he calls my marketing pricks. He could destroy the empire he built, and destroy me, just like the senile Ford all but destroyed his son and empire. No, Mr. Bernard doesn’t know I’m here. This is between you and me, Henry. Our secret. I have decided to trust you, that’s right, and I want you to trust me. Twenty-five percent above market value. What do you say, Henry?”
Henry, his head aching, leaped up. “It’s time for my evening prayers.”
“Henry, you’re an example to all of us. A really exceptional Jew. It’s heart-warming.”
“I’ll say them in the kitchen. I won’t be long.”
So Lionel was left alone with the boy, which he found unsettling.
“What’s your favourite colour, son?” he asked, impatiently tapping his gold Cross pen against the table.
Isaac simply stared.
“Come on, everybody has a favourite colour.”
“Red.”
“How would you like your Uncle Lionel to send you a big red snowmobile?”
“Do you believe the Moshiach is coming?”
“The Messiah?”
Isaac nodded.
“Well, that’s a big question, isn’t it?”
“I do.”
“Hey, that’s very nice. I’ll buy that.”
“Why?”
“Because it speaks very well for your character and your future
development as a caring person.”
The boy continued to stare. “What’s interest?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said my father lost a lot of money in interest by not cashing a cheque.”
“You don’t want to worry about that, son.”
“If my father doesn’t sell, will it all be mine one day?”
“McTavish?” Lionel asked, resisting an inexplicable urge to swat him one.
Isaac nodded.
“I’m afraid not, son.”
Henry was back. He had brought Isaac along for insurance. Alone, he feared that he would agree to everything, sign anything, just to escape Lionel. But with Isaac there, a witness, bound to spill the beans to Nialie, he was safe. He didn’t dare acquiesce. “There’s my son to consider. How could I sell his inheritance?”
“Booze isn’t exactly booming these days. We might even have to report a loss in the third quarter. If you sold, and took good advice, you could double your yield, maybe better. The boy would be bound to inherit more.”
“Please, Lionel, I can’t sell.”
“Would you sell if you were approached by others?”
“No.”
“What if your infallible Rebbe asked you to sell?”
“The Rebbe is not in the takeover business.”
There was a knock at the door. Two men had come with boards that had been hammered together to slide under Lionel’s mattress. “It’s no longer necessary,” Lionel said. “I have to leave within the hour.”
“But what about the commissioner’s dinner party? It’s being held in your honour, Mr. Gursky.”
“Please convey my sincere regrets, but I’ve just had an urgent phone call from my father. He wants me to leave for Montreal at once.”
The men left and Henry, his eyes welling with tears, reached out and touched Lionel tentatively on the shoulder. In spite of everything, he was a cousin: he was entitled to know. “It’s coming to an end,” Henry said.
“Family control?”
“The world.”
“Oh, that,” Lionel said, relieved. “Good to see you again and thanks for the tip. Knowing you it has to be insider’s information.”
A FLOCK OF THE FAITHFUL, on the annual pilgrimage out of Grise Fiord, was camped on the edge of the settlement. It was that time of year. So now, at six P.M., as proscribed during the season of Tulugaq who had come on the wooden ship with three masts, the most pious among them gathered before the front door of Henry’s pre-fab and waited, their heads bowed, until he came out to receive them. A disgruntled Nialie retreated to the bedroom with Isaac and promptly drew the curtains.
“Why can’t I watch for once?” Isaac asked.
“Because I forbid it at your age.”
Isaac parted the curtains defiantly and Nialie, though she was distressed, did not reproach him, but withdrew meekly from the room.
The men wore parkas trailing four fringes, each fringe made up of twelve strands. Beating on their skin drums, they paraded their traditional sabbath eve offerings before them. Some of the older women, plump and gap-toothed, were already drunk. Their cheeks rouged, their lipstick unevenly applied. Two of the younger ones wore imitation-leather miniskirts and red plastic boots with high heels, probably acquired in Inuvik or Frobisher Bay. Henry averted his eyes, he blushed, but listened gravely as one by one the men stepped forward, their manner deferential but their words explicit, calculated to inflame. Effusive in his gratitude, Henry nevertheless declined each offering. Then, signalling that the ceremony was over, he smiled and sang out, “Good shabbos.”
The men gathered in their disappointed and scornful womenfolk and turned to troop back to their camp, beating mournfully on their drums.
“Some shabbos,” one of the women said.